In The First Minute That My Soul

Christ Beats His Drum, But He Does Not Press Men; Christ Is Served With Voluntaries.

Whilst My Physicians By Their Love Are Grown Cosmographers, And I Their Map, Who Lie Flat On This Bed.

No Man Is An Island, Entire Of Itself; Every Man Is A Piece Of The Continent, A Part Of The Main. If A Clod Be Washed Away By The Sea, Europe Is The Less, As Well As If A Promontory Were, As Well As If A Manor Of Thy Friend's Or Of Thine Own Were: Any Man's Death Diminishes Me, Because I Am Involved In Mankind, And Therefore Never Send To Know For Whom The Bells Tolls; It Tolls For Thee.

So In A Voice, So In A Shapeless Flame, Angels Affect Us Often.

To Roam Giddily, And Be Everywhere But At Home, Such Freedom Doth A Banishment Become.